Two Minds
by thisRANDOMperson
Summary: Sherlock had a twin sister, a long time ago. And John was the only one who could fix things after she was gone.


The way Sherlock Holmes looked upon his life when a child almost convinced people that he had two separate minds. One was the regular, which dominated the life of a child. Through surroundings, the world was the most beautiful and incredible thing, and curiosity sparked the child's heart. Ignorance was shown to be pure bliss through this mind. The second mind was slightly - but not much - more dominant in the life of the adult. This mind saw past beauty and adventure and instead went further to analytical reasoning. People saw that _the leaves are whirling all around which means that fall has arrived_ rather than _it's so beautiful, the different colored leaves swirling through the cool, crispy air._ Sherlock, despite what adults thought after he turned ten, used to push back on deductions and instead enjoyed the beauty of life itself, like every child ought to.

On Sherlock's birthday, September 28, his mother gave birth to two children, not just one.

Sherlock hid the fact from the world upon adulthood; yes, Sherlock Holmes had a twin when he was younger, in fact a female twin. Her full name was Blair Clarise Holmes, and she was closer to Sherlock than anyone. She really did look just like him, even in height. She had the pale white skin, the skinny arms and legs, the gorgeous, curled black hair, and even the indecisive eyes that sometimes chose to be green, or sometimes blue, and occasionally a _very_ light gray. She had fascinating cheekbones, as did her brother, and a delicate, small chin. They really were the same in nearly every way.

They never fought, they never disagreed. The bond between them was incredibly unbreakable, and no matter how rough things got with their drunken father, they always got along and were always there for each other. When they were six years old they spent a lot of time in their room - they shared a room and didn't mind, ever - and they played pirates together. Sherlock was the brave pirate who had to rescue Blair, the damsel in distress. They would tease their older brother Mycroft, who spent time in his room reading novels. They agreed the acts were too _dull_, so they would pretend to attack him for their game. Of course, he complained to their mother about the "immaturity," and they were sent to their room again. That was alright, though; they continued to play more games.

Seven weeks after their tenth birthday, Sherlock read a book in bed (he picked up the idea from Mycroft) when Blair came in from the bathroom. She looked at her brother warily, her small hands held behind her back. "Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock finished the paragraph and slid his bookmark into the page. "You know you can. Did anything happen?"

"Yeah..." She approached him and sat on the bed, fiddling with her nightgown. Her bottom lip trembled slightly, as she was afraid to tell her secret. "There was a man at school today. Brown, messy hair and jeans. Did you see him?"

Sherlock didn't recollect. "No, sorry. Who was he?"

"I don't know... It was during my recess period so it's no wonder you didn't see him like I did."

Sherlock sat up in the bed to get more comfortable, but never took his eyes off his sister. "Tell me more. Did he hurt you?"

"No... But I was scared that he would so I left really quick. But he was on the other side of the fence, and he told me to come with him. I said no and he sort of acted mad. I'm scared he'll be there tomorrow too."

"Does Mycroft have your recess period?"

"No."

"Okay." Sherlock reached for her hand and stared deep into her identical eyes. "Tomorrow, if you see him again, I want you to tell him you will come with him."

"What?" She stared at him like he was insane but didn't let go of his hand. "No! Are you flipping serious?"

"Look, just trust me, okay?" He squeezed her hand gently. "My recess period is after yours, so tell him you'll come with him but you need to wait until the end of your recess to do so. In five minutes I'll come outside and I'll get him. I won't let you get hurt, okay?"

"I don't want him to hurt me..." Her glossy eyes dropped a tear on her nightgown, and a small tremble grew from her hand. "What if it doesn't work...?"

"It will, Blair. I swear on my life that I won't let him touch you. You can count on me, can't you? I am your twin, after all." He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Soon, he gripped her in a loving embrace, and he tucked her in to bed. They agreed to tell no one of the strange man until after everything was sorted out. Even dearest mother shouldn't know about it, not yet. Sherlock was determined to get to him before anyone.

The next day, the bell rang loudly for the end of Sherlock's lunch and the beginning of his recess period. He dashed outside and grabbed the largest stick he could find, hoping to put it to good use. His head peered around the brick wall and to the fence - but she wasn't there, and neither was the man. But he did notice that the wires on the bottom of the fence were cut and could fit someone - a little girl - through the hole. His heart stopped. He kneeled down by the fence and heard footsteps behind him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mycroft questioned. "Don't try to get out, or you'll be in loads of trouble."

He barely heard the stern voice of his brother just as he noticed the blood, still fresh, on the sharp edges of the cut fence.

That evening was harsh on Sherlock's life. He tried to listen to the voices all around him, but couldn't seem to grasp onto them or their owners for long. "Have you seen Blair? She didn't return to class..." "...unknown stranger must have lured her..." "...stayed after recess for some reason, completely unseen..." "I'm sorry Mrs. Holmes, but she's missing and we have no leads..." "...body found near the lake, she was raped and murdered, and her predator is missing."

"It was my fault." Sherlock voice was shaggy and cracked, for it had been unused for quite some time. It had been months since Blair was killed, and the world moved in a blur. Suddenly, he heard his voice confessing to Mycroft in his bedroom, and the sound echoed in his ears repeatedly for a whole minute before he realized what was going on. Mycroft was standing in front of Sherlock now, when he had previously sat in his usual favorite chair, reading another favorite novel. It took a minute before Sherlock realized his big brother was speaking, demanding answers from him, not harshly but with immense concern. With a zap, Sherlock was finally back into reality for the first time in a long time. He looked up at his brother, staring down at him, his hands gripping his shoulders firmly. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked his older brother.

"You said it's your fault. What are you talking about? Do you know something about Blair?" He shook Sherlock, gently and with impatience. "Answer me, Sherlock! Now!"

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat and his gaze drifted down to the floor. "It's my fault... She told me a man instructed that she come with him, and I told her to say yes and wait for me to see her after her recess period... He must have stolen her. I didn't...I..." His voice cracked, and then vanished again. Mycroft had his eyes closed tightly. He, too, fought a battle against tears. "Why, Sherlock... Why didn't you confront mummy and daddy about this?"

Sherlock buried his guilty face in his hands. "I wanted to save her first..."

_"Excuse me?"_ Mycroft turned around and from Sherlock's vision he disappeared. He was alone now it seemed, except for the angry man at the door, who had clearly listened in to the conversation. And in an instant Sherlock could feel the floor pressing against his back and felt hard knuckles against his cheek. Again did the voices travel through his brain in a blur, and the pain on his face seemed numb. "You killed my daughter." "It's your fault." "You should have told us and you didn't, you complete dumbass." "I hate you for this, you monster." "I'll make you regret life, you freak."

_You freak._

And that was the day that Sherlock Holmes's normal human mind, full of fantasy and love and joy, was replaced by a legendary mind that couldn't feel a thing.

/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/

Then along came doctor John Watson.

Dull. Straight forward. Simple. Boring. Normal. Mundane. _Human._ The list of adjectives describing the man could go on and on inside Sherlock's quick mind. He was the average bloke who woke up early in the mornings - complaining about the early hour, naturally - and drank coffee before going out and doing something supposedly useful on a monitored schedule just before coming home, watching the telly or reading the paper before bedtime, which was at a decent hour like ten or eleven. These things Sherlock hadn't seen in a very long time, and they somewhat bothered him. Yet, through all this, John Watson wasn't a normal man at all. No, because he craved adventure constantly, and followed Sherlock to his cases and listened to every word he had to say. He didn't make snarky remarks such as "I don't believe you" or "You're probably wrong about that." He trusted Sherlock, and trust was foreign, but most welcome. But even while John admired Sherlock's observations and deductions, he wasn't bad at making his own. He wasn't the normal stupid man, no, he was much better than that. He had an impressive ability at making deductions as well. And to top all of it off, he'd step in front of a bullet for Sherlock any day without a hint of hesitation. That was the greatest part of all, the bravery of Sherlock's favorite soldier.

After working with John for quite some time, Lestrade and Mycroft both came to visit the two flatmates. Sherlock did not at first understand why they came together, but soon his questions were resolved.

"The man committed the rape and murder of a girl about twenty years ago," Lestrade explained. Mycroft watched Sherlock with a hawk-like eye. "Some dedicated officers still in the force years later, who knew her mother well, kept on with the search and finally found the man, but one of them shot him when he tried to escape. So much for a trial," he finished with a laugh. _Clearly he doesn't know who the girl was yet,_ Sherlock thought. He took the information in and, for once, grinned. John had never seen him grin, especially not when Lestrade explained a case Sherlock wasn't a part of, and he blinked at the sight, hardly believing his eyes. "Why are you smiling?"

Sherlock felt the bit of happiness, of pride, and that desire for revenge in his mind coming to rest. The happy feelings were quickly put aside though; he didn't have time for smiles. "No reason. But just to make sure, can you look at the files and find out the name of the victim?"

"Sure." Mycroft handed Lestrade the file and he flipped through the pages and photographs. "Ah, here it is. Her name was Blair Clarise Holmes..." He read the information with wide eyes. "Sister of Mycroft Holmes and twin of Sherl..." He looked up at Sherlock, his mouth shaped like a perfect circle. "...Seriously?" He flipped through the photographs and found two or three of Sherlock and Blair as children, smiling, holding hands even. He held that particular photograph and handed the rest of the file back to Mycroft. "You were twins?" he asked the young Sherlock in the photograph. Sherlock stood up from his chair and stepped over to Lestrade. "I would like the photograph."

Lestrade took his focus off of the picture and blinked, trying to believe the information he had just obtained. "Well, these are part of the file that shouldn't be -"

"I want it." Sherlock held his hand out, not taking his eyes off Lestrade, who still held the photograph. "I know, but Sherlock, I'm not allowed to -"

"Please." Sherlock felt the sadness returning, but this time he couldn't disregard it. Before he had met John, he could suppress any sort of emotions that flooded through him and make them non-existent. But now, after working with that man and growing another strong bond, that mind he had as a child was coming back mildly, and it wasn't welcome. Sherlock bit his lip gently. "Please, Lestrade. She's my sister."

Oh, God... Lestrade had heard many sad things in his life but this couldn't be ignored. He gave up his fight and handed the photograph to its proper owner. Sherlock smiled at the picture; they had gone to the park when they were eight years old and Sherlock had picked Blair a bunch of yellow flowers from the tall grass. She took one and tucked it behind her ear, as was visible in the photograph. Sherlock chuckled gently to himself, despite what any of the others thought, and placed the picture close to the skull above the fireplace. He continued staring at it and went through another "episode" where time seemed to pass quicker than it really did, and everything but the photograph moved in messy blurs. Suddenly it was nighttime, and Mycroft stood next to him, looking at the picture.

"I remember that day," he spoke softly as they reminisced together. "I spent most of my time reading on the swingset while you and Blair slid down the slides. Eventually you fell and your knee bled, so we had to go home." He laughed gently, as did Sherlock. They spent several more minutes sharing other memories involving Blair and their broken childhood.

The next day Mycroft had returned to the flat while Sherlock decided to visit his sister's grave for the first time. Before it was nearly impossible; all his life he felt guilty for what happened to her and couldn't face even a tombstone with her name carved into it. Even the thought of his sister sent him into a deep spiral of the desire for revenge on the man, the monster, that killed her so terribly. Now, the angry part of his soul took in Lestrade's information, and his guilt was put out of its misery. Everything was over now, and he felt the need to visit the lonely tombstone. He went alone, leaving John with his brother.

"I feel the need to thank you," he said to John, who sat up in his chair. "For what?"

"When you first met my brother, I didn't know if you'd be healthy for him or not," he answered. "But you awakened the part of him that had forgotten how to care. He says he never does, but that clearly isn't true. So thank you."

John nodded in agreement. "This was a huge part of his life. Why didn't he ever tell anyone?"

Mycroft positioned himself in the chair but still felt uncomfortable with his overall situation. "My brother was...abused by our father shortly after the situation with Blair, and it continued for quite some time..." He inhaled deeply and continued his explanation through exhaling. "After his first beating he changed for good. He used to be close to normal, John. But he's been convinced all this time that it was his fault because he didn't stop it when he should have. So after the occasional beatings began he visited the library often and instead of pirate books, he got ones that even adults don't read, ones that explained humanity, through psychology and body parts. He had an intense desire to just...solve mysteries. That's how he decided he wanted to be a detective, and also unfortunately how he started with drugs so he could try to forget what his father was doing to him."

John was shocked with the information given. Sherlock Holmes, abused by his father? He'd always believed that he was simply born an incredible prodigy rather than having forced himself into one to indirectly avenge his dear sister. He shook his head and spoke, "Well, there is always a special bond between twin siblings. Some can't even handle being apart for expanded amounts of time. No wonder he changed so much."

"He grew a new bond, John, one with you. You never replaced his sister, but parts of you reminded him of her. He got to be partially human again, and it was all because of you." Mycroft sighed one last time before standing up. He stretched out his hand as John, too, rose, and they shook firmly. "Thanks," John smirked.

"Just keep an eye on him tonight, would you? I honestly don't know the mood that he's in, if he's going to try anything or not. We can chance it, though."

Not long after Mycroft's departure did Sherlock finally come back. He seemed in a good mood and didn't speak of his sister or anything; he just occasionally glanced at the photograph above the fireplace, and John swore he saw a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. John examined his silent figure for a while before asking, "You alright?"

"I won't try anything," he answered him quickly, but not with anger. His feet glided him lightly to the couch where he lied down, feeling exhaustion rising over him. "I don't think I'll need drugs anymore, John, to be fairly honest with you."

John fought a bright smile. "Really? I mean, you've said this before, but -"

"I don't need them anymore. My troubled mind is at rest, and so is her spirit." He stretched his long, thin legs out and placed his hands in the praying position as he mentally reviewed his day. For the rest of the night he remained this way, speechless and thoughtful.

After Blair's incident, people always tried to cheer Sherlock up or to get him acting normal again. His mother, oblivious to most of the beatings he got from his angered father, often took his to a therapist to see if she could get him back to normal. His whole boggled mind seemed out of place to all who knew him. Despite all the attempts and all the wasted money, Sherlock never changed, but continued to grow into an angry and quiet teenager and, finally, to the world's only consulting detective. Nothing ever budged his heart or his mind, and he'd hoped he would never worry about it happening, anyway.

Too bad he got stuck with a "normal" flatmate.


End file.
